


To His Own Devices

by annabagnell



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, M/M, Mpreg, graphic birth, graphic depiction of birth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-11-29 00:57:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11429835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabagnell/pseuds/annabagnell
Summary: “No. No, no, no,” he gasped, lurching forward and getting clumsily to the floor to pick up his shattered mobile. Pieces of glass were missing now, and the screen was totally dead, the phone silent - the ringer had stopped mid-tone. Sherlock’s heart plummeted into his stomach as he realized that he had no way of reaching John now, let alone the midwife. The nearest pay phone was blocks away, Speedy’s closed for the afternoon and Mrs. Hudson’s apartment locked.He was alone. And the baby was coming.





	To His Own Devices

**Author's Note:**

> A commission for Ika, who has commissioned me once before! (I am taking selective commissions based on plot and my availability.) Thanks for your support. Everyone, enjoy!

“God dammit.” A pause. “Dammit. God - dammit, Sherlock, of _course_ they had to pick me for _this conference._ The one that’s a week before my husband’s due to have our kid.” John tossed the letter down on the table and put a hand on his forehead, exasperated. 

 

Sherlock had looked up at the first expletive, and was staring wordlessly at his partner. John huffed a frustrated sigh and looked at the letter again, and then handed it to Sherlock. A bold line at the bottom of the paper, red letters that said ‘This is your last chance to get your CPD credits to keep your license,’ caught Sherlock’s eye right away. As though punctuating their thoughts, the baby kicked energetically, making Sherlock’s belly leap. 

 

“So…” Sherlock hesitated. 

 

“So I go, and leave you here, or I let my license lapse and I have to work four times as hard and pay to get it back. I knew I shouldn’t have let it go until the last minute,” John sighed, sitting down at the table next to Sherlock. “I just kept thinking I’d find time for another conference before I reached the eleventh hour. I was wrong. I can’t let my license lapse, I have to be able to go back to practice after my paternity leave is up -“ 

 

“Of course. That was never in question,” Sherlock said, reaching over and laying his hand over top of John’s. John looked up. “It’ll be fine. It’s only two days, you’ll get your credits, and then you’ll come back home. Easy as.” 

 

John shook his head and Sherlock could tell he was holding back an eye roll - more at himself than at Sherlock, but still. “I really…god, I don’t want to leave you here when you’re days away from due. You’ll be - what, thirty-eight weeks then? Thirty-nine? That’s way too close for me to be making a trip out of the city, even if it’s only to Cambridge. With our luck, you’ll -“ He stopped short. Sherlock was squeezing his hand warningly. “I just mean -“ 

 

“No. I will not go into early labor without you here. I’m not some wilting Omega who’ll go into a panic without his Alpha around. Besides, I’ve had a word with her, and she says she plans to stick around until she’s due, or maybe even a little longer. I will be _fine,_ John,” he said insistently, releasing the grip he had on John’s hand and standing up. He stepped over to where John was, his middle level with John’s head, and rolled his shirt up. “Tell her to stay put, if you have to.” 

 

John’s expression softened and he leaned forward, his forehead bumping Sherlock’s belly. Sherlock slid a gentle hand through John’s hair, drawing a quiet hum from his mate. John’s hands settled on Sherlock’s bump, rubbing softly. “All right, then. Dad’s got to go to a conference to keep his doctor’s license, so you need to stay tight in there while he’s gone, okay? Keep mum company while dad’s gone, and don’t you dare come early.” He kissed Sherlock’s navel, and Sherlock’s smile widened. 

 

“There. She’s a reasoning being. She’ll stay where she is until you’re back home, and then we’ll meet her. Problem solved.” Sherlock grinned and John stood up, cuffing Sherlock lightly on the shoulder and giving him a kiss. “And next time, daddy won’t let his license get this close to expiring before going to a conference and leaving mummy all alone.” 

 

John’s cheeks grew red and he huffed a laugh. “Yeah, well. It won’t happen again, that much I can promise. You know I’d beg off if I could.” 

 

“I know you would. Get online and register, before you forget that, too. I need a jobless husband like I need a hole in the head,” Sherlock said drily, picking up the paper and smacking it against John’s chest. The Alpha laughed and stepped to the side, grabbing the laptop and heading to his chair. Sherlock shook his head, rolled his shirt back down, and patted his bump before following John and stretching out on the couch. 

* * *

 

Sherlock dropped John’s duffel next to the door. He’d gotten all of John’s things packed so that they could have a few extra minutes together before John had to leave - his train would be leaving King’s Cross at 5:36, and he’d be getting home from work at just before 4 o’clock if traffic was normal. Just enough time to pack, kiss Sherlock and leave - so Sherlock did the packing for him, to allow more time for kissing. 

 

“That’s very kind of you,” John said with a smile when Sherlock explained, dropping his keys onto the duffel and obliging Sherlock’s kindness with a kiss. 

 

“Kindness has nothing to do with it,” Sherlock replied. “It’s entirely greed. Selfishness. More time with you, before you leave me for two whole days.” He pouted, only half-kidding, and John kissed away his frown. 

 

“I know. I’m an awful, awful man, leaving you like this. Leaving you both,” he said, his hands sliding up and down Sherlock’s sides. Midway through thirty-eight weeks, Sherlock’s body was full with their daughter, his belly low and round. He'd even started to blossom in the chest, his breasts getting ready to produce milk for their baby. Even his cheeks were fuller than usual, and his hips wider, and his arse rounder…John cleared his throat and wrapped his arms around Sherlock, hugging him close. “I promise, as soon as I’m home I’m going to pamper you to make up for it. Back rubs, as many as you want. Foot rubs, even. Warm baths, ice cream at any hour of the day…” 

 

“I don’t want you to leave,” Sherlock mumbled, his words muffled in the crook of John’s neck. John’s heart broke a little and he kissed Sherlock’s neck, swaying back and forth as he held Sherlock. 

 

“I know. I don’t want to leave,” John said, rubbing Sherlock’s back. “But it’s only two days. I’ll be back on Friday by five, I promise. I’ll even pick up takeaway for you on my way back. And I’ll text you when I get to Cambridge, and I’ll call you every night. You just make sure you’re eating and sleeping, and make sure _she_ stays put. Hear that, young lady?” he asked, pulling back and poking Sherlock’s belly. When he looked up, Sherlock was smiling again, albeit a little watery. 

 

They spent another quarter hour together on the sofa, and Sherlock only cried a little. John kissed him until the tears were dry and brought him a packet of crisps and a bowl of ice cream, which made him almost cry again. Finally, John’s watch read 4:45, and he gave Sherlock one last kiss and picked up his duffel and keys. “I’ll text you, yeah? Can’t afford to miss my train, I really have to go.” 

 

Sherlock heaved himself up off the sofa and followed John to the landing, giving his husband one more long hug and kiss. “I’ll text you when I get to the station, and when I get to Cambridge. I love you, my brilliant man,” John said, thumb stroking Sherlock’s cheek. 

 

“I’ll see you Friday. Don’t have too much fun without me,” Sherlock replied. “I love you too.” John squeezed his hand and smiled, and then shouldered his bag and headed down the stairs. Sherlock waited until he was out of sight and then shut the door. He looked down at his belly. “Alright, then. It’s just you and me for a few days. First order of business - we’re going to finish that ice cream, and then watch some positively shit telly that your dad would make fun of me for enjoying. A nice night in,” he said to his belly, and picked up his bowl of ice cream before settling in on the sofa. 

* * *

 

John texted Sherlock anytime he was on break between sessions - and occasionally, despite it being somewhat indecorous, during sessions too. _Useful for a case, maybe,_ John said, and Sherlock grinned, knowing it was only because John missed him. 

 

Mrs. Hudson dropped in a few times a day, commiserating with Sherlock over his absent Alpha. She brought treats, much to Sherlock’s delight. Baked apple pastry for lunch, which Sherlock garnished generously with ice cream. He sent a photo of it to John, who replied with a _:(_ and a photo of a rather sad, limp-looking turkey sandwich. 

 

_Mrs. Hudson brought a whole pan of the pastry,_ Sherlock replied later that day. John’s _:)_ barely had time to come up before Sherlock sent a photo of another plate of pastry, with the empty dish in the background, and his hand in frame giving a thumbs-up and a fork emoji. John sent back three _ >:( _faces. This sparked an emoji war for the ages, with Sherlock employing no less than five emoji keyboards he’d downloaded and ultimately trumping John’s measly default keyboard. 

 

John finally sent a white flag at 10:30 in the evening, followed by a snoozing face, and then a kiss face. In lieu of emojis, Sherlock sent John a photo of his belly, upon which he’d drawn a heart-eyes emoji with red permanent marker. John called him just to laugh, and to hear Sherlock’s voice, and they fell asleep with the line still on. 

 

When Sherlock woke up the next morning, he couldn’t decide which was more intense - how much he missed John, or how excited he was to see him again that evening. He decided unfortunately, the former outweighed the latter in that moment, and the imbalance only grew worse when his mobile had no incoming texts from John. Even his ‘good morning’ went unread. He got up, rubbing his back with a groan as he used the toilet and washed his hands, and then made breakfast. There wasn’t much to be done - the dishes were clean, the kitchen tidy, the living room livable at least - so he went back to bed mid-morning after surfing the internet for a few lazy hours until a headache made the screen too hard to read. 

 

When he woke up a few hours later, his headache was still bad, and his text was still unread, and he was cross. Even the baby seemed to be in a mood, squirming restlessly with her head low in his pelvis. She kicked him hard for a quarter hour, resulting in a bout of nasty Braxton-Hicks contractions that ended with Sherlock in the bath, trying to read a book and let the water ease his back pain. 

 

“Dammit,” he cursed loudly, throwing the book against the bathroom wall and watching it land on the floor with a thud as he rubbed his aching side through another spasm. When it passed a minute later, he flicked open his phone and resisted the urge to drop it in the milky water when he saw his text _still_ unread. He fired off another one - a slightly testy ‘Hello??’ - and put the phone back on the closed toilet seat before the screen made his headache worse. 

 

After another quarter-hour, Sherlock drained the tub and heaved himself up out of it, drying off and pulling his robe on, leaving the sash untied. He only felt worse than he had before, the headache throbbing now and that vague nausea that had plagued him in the bath was threatening to overcome his self control. The practice contractions were ongoing, and John _still_ hadn’t read his texts. 

 

What if something had happened? John always texted during breaks, and he’d promised he would text when the conference was over, and call before he headed back. Worried, Sherlock checked the weather - inclement in Cambridge. Trains delayed. He texted John again, and called - straight to voicemail. Despite himself, Sherlock started to panic again, and then was forced to grip the nearest surface to steady himself as another contraction gripped him. 

 

_No. Oh, no. Not now._ Not like this. 

 

Sherlock’s mind was racing. They had a list - a list, on the fridge, a checklist so they could keep track of what to do when Sherlock’s time came. But it was a checklist designed for the _both_ of them, not for Sherlock, alone - 

 

Item one: Time contractions. Sherlock fumbled to get his mobile from his pocket and find the contraction timer, hitting it to catch the tail end of the spasm that was ebbing now. He tapped again to time the gap between, and sat down carefully at the kitchen table, staring at the list John had written. 

 

Item two: John calls the midwife. John wasn’t here, and John wasn’t answering his phone, and Sherlock was on the verge of panicking. Even Mrs. Hudson was gone for the day, so Sherlock couldn’t employ her help. It was just him - just him, in labor alone - 

 

“Item two, Sherlock. You can call the midwife on your own.” _I don’t want to,_ a little voice said in his head. “You must. You cannot give birth on your own.” _I can, too. People much duller than me have given birth on their own._ “John would be mad at you.” _John isn’t answering his mobile. He has no leg to stand on._ “…You can call the midwife later. Item number three?” 

 

Item three: Make the bed with rubber sheets and paper underneath. “That much I can do on my own, at least.” He heaved himself up from his chair and took a few steps toward the bedroom before he caught sight of his mobile on the edge of the counter, screen dimming. He really ought to call John, leave him a voicemail - send him a text, at least. He stared at the phone until the screen went totally dark. He glared at it for a moment longer, then left it where it was and got the sheets out of the cupboard, along with a stack of newspapers they’d been saving. 

 

It took some fussing, but eventually Sherlock had stripped the old sheets off, and laid the rubber sheet down, then the newspapers, and then another set of sheets. He had to pause twice to endure contractions, and he cursed himself for leaving his mobile in the kitchen. He couldn’t very well time the contractions if his timing device was thirty feet away. He finally tossed the pillows back on the bed and stood next to it, frowning and rubbing his back. Inside him, the baby was still, her head low. Lower than it had been before his bath, for sure. “I should call the midwife,” he said to himself, crossing the room to look at the baby’s bassinet. They had a baby grow and hat and socks laid out inside, as well as a swaddling blanket. Her first outfit. He leant over carefully, trying not to lose his balance, and picked up the blanket and suit, draping it over his belly. Despite his worry and panic, the thought that soon, the baby inside him would be born and in his arms sent a little warmth through his chest. 

 

Just then, he heard his mobile chime, and then a moment later, it started to ring. He recognized the tone immediately - it was John’s. He dropped the suit and blanket on the bed and made his way as fast as he could to the door, but just as he reached the hallway, his belly gripped tight again and he cried out, gripping the doorframe. He could see his mobile buzzing and lighting up on the counter, vibrating toward the edge of the countertop. 

 

Frozen with the contraction, Sherlock could only gasp and watch in horror as his mobile reached the edge, tipped over and fell to the floor, hitting the tile head-on. He winced as he heard the screen shatter - and then winced again when he felt something shift inside him, followed immediately by a splatter on the floor and the distinctly unpleasant feeling of wet warmth spreading down his thighs and dripping down to his ankles. 

 

“No. No, no, no,” he gasped, lurching forward and getting clumsily to the floor to pick up his shattered mobile. Pieces of glass were missing now, and the screen was totally dead, the phone silent - the ringer had stopped mid-tone. Sherlock’s heart plummeted into his stomach as he realized that he had no way of reaching John now, let alone the midwife. The nearest pay phone was blocks away, Speedy’s closed for the afternoon and Mrs. Hudson’s apartment locked. 

 

He was alone. 

 

He got to his feet slowly, trying to keep even breaths. His robe was damp and his thighs were sticky. His waters were still trickling down his thighs, leaving a pool on the floor next to bits of shattered glass. “Alright, then,” he said, his voice shaky as he set his dead mobile down on the counter. “It’s just you and me, and you’ve done your part. Now it’s down to mummy.” 

 

Sherlock got in the shower, running the water as hot as he could stand it. Counting slowly in his head, he kept rough track of the time between contractions as they rolled through him. Seven minutes between, down to five by the time traffic started to pick up on the streets outside. Rush hour - 4:30 in the afternoon on a Friday. John had said he would be home by 5 o’clock, but the trains were delayed. Probably John hadn’t called until he’d gotten on the train, or to the station - and it was an hour and a half train ride from Cambridge to London. Sherlock would be lucky if John was back by 6:30. Sherlock would be _very_ lucky if John arrived before their daughter did. 

 

He paced the flat after the water ran cold, marking down times in a hasty scribble using the range clock. Four minutes between contractions as the hour changed from five to six. The contractions were hard enough now that Sherlock had to stop and bend double, leaning against whatever furniture he could reach, forcing himself to breathe deep as his body squeezed tight. He marked the time when he’d caught his breath. Three minutes, now. Hardly enough time to recover before the next pain was on him - and the pain was getting unbearable. He needed to get on the bed before he couldn’t manage it anymore. 

 

He grabbed the digital clock from the bedside table and laid it on the bed beside him, facing him. He stuffed pillows behind his back, propping himself up, and then stared at the ceiling. “Please,” he begged, tears gathering in his eyes as another contraction held his middle tight. He gasped out John’s name and fought an alien urge to bear down, desperate for his mate, for help. 

 

“Please,” he begged again, his body wracked with another contraction. It had come right after the last, with only seconds between. He couldn’t fight the urge now. He had to push. He tucked his chin to his chest and shouted as he bore down, the pain peaking to something white-hot and indescribable. He had one hand on his belly, clutching tight, the other on his thigh, as though he could use the leverage of his own strength to push her out. 

 

The pain ended and he collapsed back, limp, his heart racing, sweat beading on his forehead. He was desperate to hear the sound of the door opening, of John’s voice. It didn’t come, but another contraction did. He shoved again, his shout raw and harsh as he choked out a wordless sound. He felt her move, this time, her body sliding through his, on its way out. He curled as tight as he could around his belly, trying to reach between his legs, hoping he would be able to feel if anything was wrong. He could feel his own opening, gaping and slick, but no head yet. He caught his breath in the short lull between pains, and when another pain came, he chased it away with a shout and another hard push. 

 

He felt her head against his fingertips, hot and wet. He felt fine hairs shift under the pressure of his fingertips, and he sobbed, body lurching and beyond his control. He shoved as hard as he could and she emerged further, her head stretching him wide until it felt like he was being cut open with a dull knife. He cried out, high and panicked, eyes wide and staring into the middle distance as the pain grew worse, until her head was suddenly filling his palm and the stretch abated just enough that he could breathe again. He cradled her head, feeling her - ear? Nose? He couldn’t see, couldn’t tell - against his palm. He breathed out, caught his breath as best he could, and pushed again as soon as he felt a contraction grab him again. 

 

He couldn’t reach her head as the rest of her body started to emerge, bit by bit. Her shoulders turned and he felt them slide over his hand, his fingers grasping for purchase on her little slick arms. He released the grip on his thigh and bent further over, reaching blindly for her body, to support it as he delivered her. One last push brought her hips and legs forth, and he sobbed without words as he pulled her out and laid her on his swollen stomach. 

 

“Oh, my god,” he managed, looking at her tiny body. Her cord was through her legs, not around her neck, and she was tiny and purple and had white vernix on her head and body but she was breathing and then she cried, her little voice brand-new and raw and filling Sherlock’s ears. 

 

“It’s okay, mummy’s got you, my beautiful, mummy has you, you’re just fine, we’re both fine,” he breathed, gathering her as close as he could. He caught sight of her discarded swaddling blanket, the one he’d tossed on the bed earlier, and he reached for it, laying it over her and tucking it around her little body to keep her warm. He wiped his own tears away, his hands bloody and covered in his fluids. He laid back for a moment, exhausted, against the pillows he’d stacked, and caught his breath. Gradually, his senses came back to him and he realized he had work yet to do. 

 

Carefully, still holding her against him, he slid his legs off the bed and gingerly got to his feet. His whole body shouted at him in protest, sore and pained and raw from having just given birth, but he had to find John’s medical kit, had to cut her cord. He was staggering to the bathroom, knowing he was leaving a trail of blood and god only knew what else, when he heard - the door open - 

 

John came in, and Sherlock heard him drop his bag, and he called out Sherlock’s name, sounding a little worried. Sherlock couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it. “In here,” he said, his voice raw, and he heard John’s footsteps come around the corner. John stopped short when he caught sight of Sherlock, and Sherlock let out a little hysterical laugh. He could only imagine John’s thoughts - he was standing in the hallway, dripping blood and fluids, covered in the detritus of birth, clutching a baby to his belly with her cord hanging between his thighs, himself fully naked and drenched in sweat and exhausted. “Hello,” he said at last, and John’s eyes were wide and he shook his head and rushed forward to them. 

 

“You’ve got to be kidding. What - how on earth, I’m - what the hell were you doing?” John asked, sounding panicked and confused and cross and in disbelief all at the same time. 

 

“I’ll explain. I need the scissors, to cut her cord - oh,” he said, and then as though it was an afterthought, he shifted his hold on her and pulled the blanket to the side and let John see her face. ‘Oh,’ came John’s echo, and then he was clutching Sherlock’s shoulder and stifling sobs of his own. 

 

“Oh, my god. That’s her - that’s, Jesus, Sherlock. This is insane, this is the most insane thing you’ve ever done, that’s our _daughter._ Where is the midwife?” he asked, looking up at Sherlock. 

 

“I said I would explain. Cord first, and then I need to - get done with the placenta.” He made a face and drew in a shuddering breath as a little contraction swept through his belly, and he felt his womb trying to contract and expel the afterbirth. Thankfully, it didn’t happen right there, and he was able to wait for John to cut the cord and to squat over a bowl to deliver the messy thing for John to look over. While John cleaned and swaddled the baby, and cleaned Sherlock up too, Sherlock explained. 

 

“I had felt sick all morning, and thought it was just general pregnancy aches. And I was pissed at you, because you weren’t answering my text -“ 

 

“My phone died because I fell asleep talking to you, and I didn’t pack a charger. I was able to use one at the Cambridge station for just long enough to get a charge, but you didn’t pick up when I called -“ 

 

“Because I left my mobile on the kitchen counter whilst I was making the bed, and I had a contraction when you rang, and my waters broke as I watched my phone vibrate right off the damned counter and shatter on the floor.” 

 

“Jesus.” 

 

“This was all a mess. But I did it all by myself,” Sherlock said, proudly, and John nodded and then narrowed his eyes. 

 

“But why no midwife? Item two on the list?” Sherlock looked at him sheepishly. 

 

“I was going to call her when my waters broke. But my phone broke before I could do it.” John just shook his head and picked up the baby, laying her on Sherlock’s chest and sitting on the bed next to him. 

 

“I can’t believe you managed it on your own, honestly. I was imagining that, worst-case scenario, I’d come home to you in labor and have to rush you to the hospital, but I thought even that was silly. Of course you weren’t going to go into early labor,” he laughed, and Sherlock couldn’t help but laugh too. 

 

“I was determined that it wasn’t going to happen, but she had other ideas,” he said softly, looking down at her. She had a little bit of dark hair in patches on her head - she hadn’t been in long enough to really grow a full head of hair, but it would come in soon enough, if she was anything like her mum - and high cheekbones, with John’s nose and chin nestled in a chubby face. Sherlock’s own lips were pursed in her tiny face, in a moue of baby-unhappiness at her unexpected entrance into the world. “She looks like us,” he murmured, holding her in the crook of his arm and staring at her like she was the most incredible thing in the world. Of course she was, he thought. 

 

“She should ought to have a name, I think,” John said, leaning over to bestow a gentle kiss to Sherlock’s cheek. “We were going to narrow down our list when I got back, but, well…ran out of time, a bit.” 

 

Sherlock thought for a moment. “Abigail,” he said, testing it out on this tiny, brand-new human in his arms. “I liked that one, of the list we made. Abigail…” 

 

“Abigail Geneva?” John mused, and Sherlock felt a pang in his chest. “After your -“ 

 

“My grand-mère, yes,” Sherlock said, and sniffled a little. John’s soft ‘oh, love’ was followed by another kiss to his cheek, and Sherlock pulled himself back together. “Abigail Geneva. I think it’s…I think it’s perfect for her.” 

 

“I can’t say I disagree.” John beamed down at Sherlock, and Sherlock knew he was indescribably proud of him. Sherlock reveled in it. He’d borne them a daughter, all on his own, and she was perfect. And John, true to his word, indulged Sherlock in every possible way for leaving him alone, albeit now with Abigail here and not waiting on her arrival as he’d thought they would be. In true Holmes style, she’d had her own plans, and this was just the first of many times that their daughter would catch them both by surprise. Sherlock couldn’t think of anything more fitting.


End file.
